


After the Affair

by threecee



Series: Anna Pasternak Stories [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2019-11-05 16:09:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17922077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threecee/pseuds/threecee
Summary: Developing friendship between Illya and an UNCLE doctor. Just a bit of fluff.





	After the Affair

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a stand-alone, but would occur some months after the Long Way Home Affair if you want any chronology.

_Written from Illya’s POV_

Once again, I’m standing in UNCLE Medical with a headache watching my partner ditch me for a girl  
.  
The affair was a very long month of mind-numbing boredom alternating with bursts of lethal action. For a change, neither of us is seriously injured and I would like to celebrate our success, but Napoleon has already planned a lavish celebration with the annoying innocent who thrust herself into the middle of a situation she didn’t understand and got in our way at every turn. Since Napoleon is dropping her off at a hotel to “freshen up” while he goes home to change, he might at least have offered me a ride home. 

Someone comes up to stand beside me. From the hint of lavender under the sharp medical smells and the short stature I recognize Dr. Anna Pasternak before she announces in an affected drawl, “Once again Good triumphs over Evil, as our hero rides off into the sunset with the beautiful girl. Reckon this is when the faithful sidekick moseys over to the saloon for dinner with the folksy ol’ doctor.”

I scow down at her. I may have only a slight concussion this time, but that is no reason to make my headache worse with nonsense. “What?”

“Dinner. With me. Unless you prefer to scrape the mold off whatever you left in your refrigerator last month.”

I was planning a quiet evening of listening to music, drinking vodka, and feeling ill-treated, but Anna is an excellent cook and agreeable company. Also, I remember that all I had in my refrigerator was left-over pizza and milk. “All right. Thank you.”

“Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change. You might want to clean up a bit yourself. I’ll meet you in Reception.” Anna flashes the crooked grin that always causes her unscarred cheek to dimple.

Women are always late. It is a full sixteen and a half minutes before Anna arrives in Reception.

We leave through Del Floria’s and I start to turn into the stairs leading to her apartment next door. She catches my sleeve. “Where are you going? I want to go out to dinner. I had a week of double shifts, I haven’t had time to buy groceries, and I really need a change from the same four walls.”

Well, she did save my life before it was her job to do so. “All right. Where would you like to go? Horn & Hardart?” I don’t expect her to accept that suggestion, but it is always good to establish low expectations.

“Too familiar. I want to go somewhere... different. Maybe somewhere in Chinatown? You must know all sorts of exotic restaurants where I can get something I haven’t had before.”

“Such as food poisoning? Or were you thinking more of a knife in the back?”

“Illya Nickovich! Remember I can schedule you for a proctology exam!” She would too.

“Does Indian food meet your requirements? Mark Slate told me about a new restaurant over on Tenth.”

“Perfect! Can we walk there? It’s so good just to get away from work for a while.” 

The restaurant was as Mark had described it, discretely lit with good space between tables. The headwaiter wanted to steer us to a table near the center of the room, but I firmly selected one by the left wall with a clear view of all the doors. 

Anna is happy with the cool green and white interior and the small exotic touches of Indian embroidered wall hangings and a small statue of a goddess draped in flower garlands and flanked by oil lamps near the cash register. I’m happy with the modest prices on the menu. The waiter is happy to identify the statue for Anna as Mahalakshmi, goddess of prosperity. Everyone is happy until I start to order an Indian beer and the busybody physician sitting across from me coughs and rubs her forehead significantly. I change my order to tea and ask the waiter to return after we have had some time to consider our order. 

After the waiter leaves, Anna officiously reminds me to avoid alcohol after a concussion, but quickly switches back to asking my advice about the menu. I briefly consider mild revenge in my recommendation, but she is as conditioned by her profession as I am by mine. Besides, ordering goat might test the normal American woman’s resolve to “try something really different,” but Anna’s history is similar to mine and if she has never eaten goat it is only because her family couldn’t afford such luxury.

We settle on a platter of varied appetizers, then chicken vindaloo for me and lazeez paneer for Anna, finishing with masala tea and gulab jamun. Over dinner she asks me about my experiences in India, “Not what mission you were on, just what it’s like to visit.” Anna is a good listener and asks intelligent questions. I end up talking about a number of the countries I’ve visited, focusing on the interesting sights, foods, and customs. It is rather surprising how much I have managed to experience of normal travel when I spend so much time being shot at or tortured. We linger until everyone else is gone and the staff are glaring at us before I finally pay the bill. 

Anna behaves very well on the walk home, keeping her hands to herself, no clutching or clinging. In fact, I find myself a bit piqued by her good behavior. I may not be as irresistible as Napoleon, but I am a reasonably attractive man. My thoughts drift to Napoleon for the first time in hours and I imagine he is in bed with the idiot girl by now.

“Illya? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Nap, um, Anna. I still have a slight headache.” 

“Take one of the pain pills I gave you after you get home. No vodka.”

“I’ll remember.” I won’t do it, but I will remember what she said.

She unlocks her door, turns on the light, and cancels the alarm then turns to thank me. “Thank you so much, Illya. This evening was exactly what I needed.”

To forestall any romantic awkwardness, I quickly lean in and kiss her on the forehead. “I enjoyed it too. Good night, little sister,” I say in Ukrainian.

For a moment there is a look in her eyes of surprise and perhaps disappointment. Ah, Annushka, I have spared you much greater disappointment.

She recovers quickly and places her hand on my face for a moment, “Good night, my brother.”

Walking home, I decide to get to work early tomorrow and find some urgent project in the lab, so I can fob off writing the mission report and expense account on Napoleon.


End file.
